


Dreams Are True While They Last

by satb31



Series: Amis et amants [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Era, Dreams, M/M, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2435993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre dreams of spending a night with Prouvaire in Paris -- but then he awakens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams Are True While They Last

**Author's Note:**

> One of a series of five NSFW fics, based on prompts submitted to sashaatthebarricade.tumblr.com.
> 
> The title is from Alfred Lord Tennyson.

The dream is remarkably vivid.

A sleepless Combeferre is in his rooms in Paris, tossing and turning in his bed on a moonless night, his thoughts occupied with the revolution he is aware of even in his subconscious. As he tangles himself in the sheets, a vision in white appears before him. At first he believes at first it is a ghost or perhaps an angel — something otherworldly that makes him question his presence among the living. But as the figure gets closer, Combeferre sits up and squints at it until he can finally identify who it is: it is Prouvaire, clad in just a threadbare white shirt that hangs to his knobby knees.

“Is something the matter?” Combeferre asks, his brow furrowing in concern as Prouvaire takes a seat on the bed beside him.

“Not at all,” Prouvaire assures him, pushing a lock of Combeferre’s hair off of his high forehead. “It seems that Queen Mab has abandoned you, and I have the perfect substitute for her absence.”

If he were awake, Combeferre would protest, but instead he obeys, his body feeling leaden as he sinks back into the mattress and closes his eyes.

And before he can open his mouth to ask Prouvaire what his intentions are, Prouvaire is covering him with his body, his face hovering above Combeferre’s as his palms brush Combeferre’s bare chest.

Combeferre shivers, feeling gooseflesh arise in the wake of his touch. “Prouvaire, I—”

“Shh,” Prouvaire admonishes him, silencing him with a kiss so sweet and so longing Combeferre knows any further resistance will be futile. “Relax, my dear Combeferre,” he murmurs against his lips, as his left hand wanders down Combeferre’s side and comes to rest on his hip, his right hand stroking Combeferre’s stubbled face as they continue kissing. Prouvaire’s tongue is exploring Combeferre’s mouth lasciviously, and Combeferre cannot help but to moan in pleasure.

“Prouvaire,” is all he can manage to say when they come up for air, and when he opens his eyes he can see the young poet’s blue eyes gleaming in the moonlight, clearly quite proud of the effect he is having on Combeferre. Prouvaire sits up, never breaking eye contact with Combeferre, and peels off his shirt, revealing a pale chest covered with a smattering of golden hair that grows thicker as it approaches his manhood — which is very obviously aroused.

And Combeferre does not even have to look down at himself to know that he is in a similar state.

The corners of Prouvaire’s mouth turn up just slightly as he pulls back the single sheet to reveal the extent of Combeferre’s growing interest. “Monsieur Combeferre, you appear to be quite pleased with these developments,” he says, trailing his fingers down Combeferre’s chest. “Tell me, would you prefer my mouth or my hand? Or something else entirely? Perhaps something more in the Greek way?”

Swallowing hard, Combeferre contemplates the possibilities. “The latter, I think,” he gasps, as Prouvaire wraps his thumb and forefinger around the base of Combeferre’s cock.

“I would like that as well,” Prouvaire says, sounding unusually forward and confident. “You will be pleased to find that I have prepared myself accordingly,” he says, taking Combeferre’s right hand and guiding it between the cleft of his buttocks.

Combeferre can feel the oil on his fingers as he touches Prouvaire’s entrance and moans involuntarily. “Prouvaire,” he breathes, before the man in question covers his mouth with his own. How did he know Combeferre had wanted this, when Combeferre himself had not even realized it himself?

Before Combeferre can protest — not that he would protest, even if he could — Prouvaire lowers himself slowly onto Combeferre’s erection, his eyes never leaving Combeferre’s face, a beatific smile on his face as he sinks lower.

“Oh God, Prouvaire,” Combeferre gasps. It has been a long time since he has been inside another and Prouvaire is so tight and hot around his member.

And then Prouvaire begins to move.

The physical sensation is almost too much for Combeferre — with every thrust it feels as if he is falling into a sensual abyss that he never wants to climb out of — and the sight of Prouvaire, hovering over him, looking almost otherworldly with his eyes closed and his mouth open, looking for all the world like a sculpture of a saint in ecstasy. Combeferre keeps calling the young man’s name, as if repeating it over and over will allow the pleasure to keep coming.

After what seems like an eternity Combeferre spills his seed in the depths of Prouvaire.

And the dream comes abruptly to an end.

**

“Are you all right, Combeferre?” he hears Prouvaire say, his high voice cracking in concern as he asks.

It takes a moment for Combeferre to realize he is awake, struggling to sit up and blinking his eyes against the early morning sunlight. “Prouvaire? Where am I?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically anxious amid his confusion. He fumbles around the bed, which is clearly not his own modest one, but a larger, more ornate one, with soft sheets and an expensive coverlet.

“We are at my parents’ estate,” Prouvaire reminds him as Combeferre’s vision finally comes into focus to see him standing by the bed in his night clothes, nervously fingering the hem of his shirt. “You were not sleeping adequately in Paris, and it was clearly taking a toll on your health, so Joly recommended you take some time away from the city, so I brought you here. You have been asleep since we arrived early last evening, and I did not dare wake you until I heard you calling my name.”

“Calling—calling your name?” The dream is beginning to come back to Combeferre, and his eyes widen at the memory.

Prouvaire sits on the bed beside him. “You seemed to be in a lot of pain — you were moaning so loudly I thought you were ill.” He places his hand on Combeferre’s thigh, which is covered modestly by the sheet — then pulls it away quickly, as if he has touched a hot stove, his mouth agape as he looks at Combeferre.

And Combeferre notices that the spot he has touched is damp with his own spendings.

Prouvaire’s face has turned crimson. “Oh, Combeferre,” he manages to say. “Were you—”

“Yes,” Combeferre blurts out without thinking. “I was back in Paris and you — you offered to help me —” He pauses, not entirely sure how to describe his dream to the man who figured so prominently in it. “You offered to help me feel better,” he finally says.

“And did I?” Prouvaire said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“In my dreams you did—” Combeferre replies. He is a man of science and logic — a dream is not an indicator of anything, he scoffs, certainly not of any repressed feelings he may have for Prouvaire. But even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it is a lie — and as he looks at Prouvaire, who shyly looks down at his lap, so different from the boldly seductive young man of Combeferre’s dream, he notices that even in the light of day he is still so lovely, with his high color and his full mouth.

So Combeferre reaches out and strokes his cheek with the back of his hand, watching eyes grow wide, finally brushing his lips with a kiss.

“Combeferre,” Prouvaire murmurs against his lips. “You do know it is not necessary for you to cater to the whims of your unconscious mind. In the light of day things may seem very different, you know.”

Combeferre kisses him again, a kiss that is more urgent, more demanding. “Perhaps I wish to cater to them,” he says stubbornly. “Unless—” he says, pulling back to look at him, searching his face for a reaction. “Unless you do not wish me to.”

Prouvaire looks down at his lap again, his face getting even redder. “I have wished you to for many months, but I dared never dream of such a thing,” he confesses, not meeting Combeferre’s eyes. “When you and I were discussing literature in our corner of the Musain, sometimes my mind would wander—”

“Then I think we should make that dream a reality,” Combeferre interrupts, speaking with a boldness he does not entirely feel — doing this while asleep is an entirely different animal from doing this while awake. “Come lie beside me,” he says, heaving the stained coverlet off the bed and sliding over to one side to make room for Prouvaire to lie down, pleased that they do not need to crowd into his tiny bed in Paris.

And as they come together — with Combeferre on top, feeling the sweet pain of Prouvaire pushing inside him — it is even more vivid than anything either man could have dreamed.


End file.
